


Maybe We Can Find A Purpose Together

by pwuthyboi



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 3rd person, Confident!Steve, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, also Nancy is Nathan and Jonathan is Joan everyone else is themselves besides b & s duh, also billie's real name is sybil lmao hehe, also carol and Stevie are best friends, alternating pov, and robin and billie are best friends, don't roast me pls this is my first real fic, it is modern times fyiiiiiiii, it is teen rating rn but will change as it goes on aka future smut hehe, its very gay and angst is my best friend, no upside down, soooo I am finally writing my fem!harringrove fic, there is nothing supernatural happening just a bunch of gays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwuthyboi/pseuds/pwuthyboi
Summary: “The name’s Billie, actually.”And her eyes caught on Stevie, making her turn her whole head slightly until she was directly facing the brunette. A smile tugged at her mouth and Stevie found herself returning the gesture with a lift of her brow.“Billie or Hargrove. I’m not picky.”Billie stared for another moment before walking, heavy footsteps and all, to an empty desk two in front and three to the left of Stevie. The girl slumped back, spreading her legs to lounge like Stevie’s father always taught her not to. She tied her curls up into a loose bun, and Mrs. Click started the class.That wasn’t what made Stevie stop watching; Carol slapping her arm again did.“Guess English is gonna be interesting now, ain’t it, Harrington,” she grinned at Stevie, all hyena like.“Yeah,” she breathed, “I guess so.”A self indulgent Fem!Harringrove mainly bc I am a lesbian who cannot write gay smut and also just wanted a good wlw fic heh
Relationships: Billie Hargrove/Stevie Harrington, Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Harringrove - Relationship, fem!harringrove - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. The Californian

**Author's Note:**

> this is for xi and clo (and jai and Eli and Marty and fan and Lou). I love y'all. I don't write fiction (Dwri major here heh!) so I hope y'all like this foray into the unknown aka a way for me to get better at actually writing fiction.

First impressions are everything. They make or break arrangements, relationships, futures. You can tell a lot about the first words out of someone’s mouth, the way they walk, the way they hold themselves. 

At least, that’s what Stevie’s father always told her. 

Since she was a child, old enough to learn how to flip the fork down when picking up a bite, old enough to know how to sit properly, sip at her glass with the dainty air that french monarchs would be proud of, Stevie has known how to read people. 

For her father, a man of power and money, the tell was always in the handshake. If it was firm, sweaty, or too long, it revealed the opponents whole hand. 

Stevie preferred a more Fly on the Wall approach. She read all the cards in others’ eyes. It’s how she was able to tell which of her father’s work friends would flirt with her that night, or how she was able to know her father was cheating before she caught the secretary with her father’s cock in her mouth. It’s how she was able to see through her mother’s unwavering smile, always how it was aided with some sort of pill or bottle of wine. 

Eventually, it’s how she secured her role as Queen of Hawkins. 

Even as a freshman in high school, she knew how to attract people, use her assets to get what she wanted. She knew what people desired just from the first look, the first interaction. She climbed the ladder so fast, you’d think it was an escalator. Along the way, she roped in Carol and Tommy. Tommy was an idiot, but he was a good punch when he wanted to be. Carol saw the world like Stevie did. They weren’t the best of friends, but yet they were each other’s closest friend, not because of their mutual interests, but because they knew you had to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. 

Stevie always liked Carol. It was more of a respect thing than anything else. She liked her fire, the way she saw the world through the distorted view she did. They were neighbors since they were kids, grew up in the same circle. Their fathers were fast friends, their mothers even quicker. Their fathers swapped conquers while their mothers swapped gossip, and Carol and Stevie swapped secrets. Stevie was the first to know about the gambling addiction that almost cost Carol’s house and Carol was the first to know the truth about the many “business trips” her father went on. 

Stevie should have been sad when Carol brought Tommy into their circle, but she wasn’t. She saw Tommy as exactly what Carol needed—thought it was actually smart of her. A dumb, whipped hot head who would be able to do all her bidding. She had him wrapped around her pink-painted fingers. 

Stevie expected the same treatment when she fell for Nathan Wheeler, but instead, Carol left her high and dry. Their shared quips about others turned against her and Nate. She should have seen it, seen how right Carol had been, but Stevie was blind-sighted by finally being needed. Carol had her Tommy and Stevie had her Nathan. She thought it would be enough, but Carol saw through it all, tried to tell her even.

And god was she right. 

Sometimes, Stevie wonders if she could go back to Carol, apologize for not believing her and beg for her back, but that isn’t how Stevie works. So she watches, waits, and hopes something will come along to replace Carol, maybe even make it better. 

***

Stevie is good at reading people. It’s how she found out about Byers before Nate even could tell her. He had the same look her father did when he came home to his mother, bouquet in hand, as if it would hide the fact that he smelled like another woman’s perfume. She didn’t even give him time to apologize, just left. Didn’t yell, didn’t cry; she simply left.

It all came to head when Nathan read her college application essay and got that stupid, pinched face that Stevie hates. It reminds her of the one her father gets when she comes home from being out all night with last nights clothing still on, disheveled and marked by last nights’ fling. She likes to stare him down, waits for her father to break first, wants him to say something so she can tell him “you made me like this. You can’t be upset with what you created.”

She could see the judgment in Nate’s eyes and it all made sense. The pinch in the side of his mouth, like he was trying to figure out what to say, how to be nice--it’s not what she wanted. She didn’t need nice. She needed honesty, someone to give it to her straight up, someone to yell at her and take her by her shoulders and shakeshakeshake until she comes loose. 

He opened his mouth to comment and she didn’t let him get through his breath in before she snatched her paper back. He let out this little noise instead, his eyes wide, and Stevie just laughed. 

“I won’t ever be enough for you,” she breathed, “Will I?” And didn’t even protest, just looked to her, his eyes full of sad. 

And fuck that, seriously. 

With another laugh, this one of incredulous, relief, she opened the door. 

“You know what? I’m done!” She found herself laughing, found herself lightheaded and dizzy, like she was drunk on the realization, “Have fun with Byers.” She grabbed her back, slamming the door and muffling the protests of Nathan and the “wait, Stevie wait!” that echoed behind her. Some random girl in the parking lot gave her a high-five and Stevie let the smack of the girl’s palm ground her. 

And for the first time in months, she really missed Carol. 

***

The news that Stevie and Nathan had split up traveled through Hawkins fast. By lunchtime, everyone knew. Stevie sat at a table alone, listening to music on her phone, not wanting to sit with Nathan for obvious reasons, but especially since he was cuddled up to Joan Byers now with Barb at his side. She didn’t know why Nathan was acting like the victim when he’s the one that fucking cheated on her, but I guess that’s the power of his big baby blues. 

Stevie was halfway through her stale pb&j when someone sat before her. Stevie had countless guys coming up to her since this morning’s spectacle. Some she knew, had hooked up with them before she demoted herself to Wheeler’s girl, but some were new. 

Before Nathan, Stevie got around a lot. She can’t believe that asshat even made her feel bad about it. Sex is fun and feels great and Stevie’s good at it. She’s good at knowing what the guys want. She knows if they want it slow or fast, if they want her bossy or needy. Mostly, it was her tits. She had a great pair, to be honest, and guys loved it when she was on top, so they could get the full view. It didn’t please her as much, but it got the guys off, and that did a majority of the work for her. 

Carol never understood it, was the kind of girl that would whip the guy into shape if he didn’t make her come first or even at all. Stevie didn’t care, loved the worship of it all, the marks and the compliments she received were better than any drug or drink. 

So when she paused her music and looked up all beguiling at the person before her, Carol was the last person she expected. 

She looked angry almost, like when she found out that Stevie had lost her virginity and not told her immediately after. Stevie’s smile faded fast, bracing for whatever came. 

Tommy sitting next to Carol was also a surprise. He was wide eyed— a puppy following its owner—his line of sight flitting between Carol and Stevie, as if he were waiting for a first move. 

“Hi, Stevie,” he said. Carol smacked him. 

She rolled her eyes, turning to Stevie. It made her smile, reminding her of old times. 

“Listen, we haven’t forgiven you, but good fuckin’ riddance.”

And that was that. It wasn’t perfect anymore, but Carol immediately launched into the gossip Stevie’s missed and she felt like she could breathe again. 

***

The second day of senior year came with a spring in Stevie’s step. After the breakup, people were greeting her and treating her like the past year and half hadn’t happened. It didn’t help that she was buddy buddy with Carol again. She sat on the bumper of her Beemer smoking a cigarette while some random junior—Todd? Tim?— basically begged for her number. 

She could hear the whispers and giggles behind her as Tommy and Carol sucked face against the driver’s door. It wasn’t that the guy wasn’t cute, that she wasn’t interested in how he was way taller than her—a rare feat for her 5’9” frame—but she liked the attention, wanted to keep her options open, wanted to see unattainable. She was in the middle of giving him some bullshit excuse about her broken heart—that excuse had the men coming in droves, eager to show her what she had been missing, what a “real man” was— and to check in with her in a week when there was a roar, a rumble, that distracted her from her spiel, loud enough to break Carol from shoving her tongue down her boyfriend’s throat. 

Entering the parking lot was a purple Camaro, old and adorned with California plates that she had never seen. It barely parked, more like straddled over two spots, claiming them in a way that didn’t sit right with Stevie. 

“Who the fuck is that,” Carol said. She popped her gum loud, her hand on her hip in the way that she only does when she’s about to go off on someone. Which was bad. Which mean Carol also felt a bit threatened. 

“I don’t know,” Stevie said back. 

From the passenger seat emerged a moody looking red head who immediately skated off on a board towards the middle school. Then, the window of the driver’s side rolled down. Behind a plume of smoke that escaped with the new exit, sat a pair of sunglasses perched on a tanned, button nose. It was a girl they had never seen before, sitting so relaxed that it seemed like a facade. She played with a strand of her perfectly curled and blonde hair, blown out in a way that Stevie only envied with her straight brown hair. She beat out the rhythm of fucking Rock You Like A Hurricane— which she had as loud as Stevie thinks it could go— against her steering wheel. And what the hell is with that, this chick acting like they were still in the 80s and that “dad rock” was cool?

“Who is that,” the junior (Tom?) said dreamily and Stevie elbowed him. 

His yelp of pain had the new girl look over, her one brow arching high from behind the glasses. Stevie couldn’t see it, but could feel the scan of the girl’s eyes. Stevie felt like prey on her terrain and she hated it, hated it. She straightened up, held her chin higher. She heard the rustling of clothing behind her and knew Carol and Tommy were doing the same. The girl lowered her sunglasses, revealing a piercing set of blue eyes, magnified by black kohl liner and full dark lashes. The blue went well against her tanned skin, fitting the stereotypes Stevie had always heard about the California babes, assuming the plates were right and not some ploy for attention. She wouldn’t be surprised; what the hell is a Californian doing in Hawkins of all places. The girl smiled, a vicious thing full of teeth and amusement, and poked her tongue against the corner of her mouth, pink standing out against the red lipstick staining her full lips. 

She popped the cigarette back in her mouth, aligning with the red mark already left on its paper. She swung open her door, hard and free from the space she left for herself in the parking spot. Her boots clunked onto the ground—heavy, like a punctuation. She closed it behind her, taking a moment to lean against her car, blowing smoke up into the air and allowing the onlookers to eat her up as she bared her throat to the masses. It was as tanned as the rest of her, the sun kissed skin leading the eyes down into her partially buttoned shirt and further into her cleavage, allowing everyone to leave the limit of that California kissed skin to their imagination. The jeans she wore, stone washed and ripped at the knees, held onto her hips for dear life, accentuating every curve, showing off her strong thighs and calves without them having to be bare. 

She looked back at Stevie when her head came down. Had the audacity to wink at her. Then she reached into her car, grabbed her jean jacket—which, really? Jean on jean?—and back and walked into the school with such an assertive gait that one could not help but stare. The sway of her hips and the honest to god ass that she had didn’t help either. Stevie wasn’t lacking per say in the bottom department but her assets were definitely not assets. �She had enough to look good, enough for a guy to grab. And judging from the ogling, including the boy besides her who had just been staring down her shirt, made her realize that she now had competition. 

It made Stevie mad, made her tighten her arms around her lithe frame. She had the chest going for her, had the charm down pat, but that? Being able to get an entire room to look at you and beg for more, that was something Stevie definitely didn’t have. 

And just like that, her second day of Senior year was run through the dirt.

***  
Stevie didn’t get the pleasure of learning the Californian’s name until second period. Carol was sitting on top of Stevie’s desk, twirling her gum and telling Stevie about some gossip she some how was able to obtain about the new girl in one period. 

“Some say she beat up some kid and got sent to juvie so now she’s here.”

“Apparently she’s related to Brad Pitt.”

“Brandy said the butt is definitely fake. Her sugar daddy got it for her and her car.” 

“She’s not even from California. The tan is fake and she’s from some place like Idaho instead. Paid someone for the fake plates.”

“She got sent here to live with her strict grandparents after someone caught her with a teacher.”

After a bit, Stevie finally turned to Carol, matching her grin and leaning in close, close enough to kiss, close enough to make Carol giggle. 

“You’re so full of shit, you know,” she whispered, making Carol fully laugh. She lightly smacked Stevie’s arm, acting all offended. 

“I’m just intuitive,” she replied, chomping on her gum again.

“No, you’re fucking nosy,” Stevie laughed. 

And before Carol could come up with a retort, Mrs. Click came into the room, clapping her hands and asking them to “settle down” as if there was a riot happening in 2nd period English. Carol made a face, slinking into her own chair next to Stevie. Carol hated Click since she failed her on the last exam, but Stevie was indifferent. She got along well with the male teachers, could pull out some real good puppy dog eyes with her big brown eyes, but the women saw through it. They all thought she was dumb, which—to be fair— she kind of was. She was good at knowing how to deal with people, but tests were a whole other world to her. Carol was at least good with words, good at memorizing things and making sense of it all. Last essay she just completely forgot about and was too hungover to do a good job, while Stevie was stuck on it for days, the words never making sense to her. 

“Students,” Mrs. Click cleared her throat, “We have a new student joining us here today.”

And with that, the new chick walked in. Carol smacked Stevie with the back of her hand, as if to point out the very obvious fresh meat. The girl had an air to her, like before. She picked at her nails, chipping off the black polish like she couldn’t be bothered to be there. 

“This is Sybil Hargrove.”

Someone snickered at the name and Billie stopped, looking up at the person from over her nails. Even through it wasn’t directed at her, the look pinned Stevie to the spot. It harbored a kind of anger and violence that intrigued her. She didn’t have to say anything to get the boy to murmur out a “sorry”. She shifted her shoulders, adjusting the jean jacket she now wore over the crimson top as she looked to the class. 

“The name’s Billie, actually.”

And her eyes caught on Stevie, making her turn her whole head slightly until she was directly facing the brunette. A smile tugged at her mouth and Stevie found herself returning the gesture with a lift of her brow. 

“Billie or Hargrove. I’m not picky.”

Billie stared for another moment before walking, heavy footsteps and all, to an empty desk two in front and three to the left of Stevie. The girl slumped back, spreading her legs to lounge like Stevie’s father always taught her not to. She tied her curls up into a loose bun, and Mrs. Click started the class. 

That wasn’t what made Stevie stop watching; Carol slapping her arm again did. 

“Guess English is gonna be interesting now, ain’t it, Harrington,” she grinned at Stevie, all hyena like. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, “I guess so.”


	2. Stevie "Princess" Harrington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billie's POV :)

Sometimes, Billie Hargrove feels bad about the fact that her and her step sister, Max, aren’t that close, but then she does something stupid to piss off Billie, like she just did by turning down the volume of Billie’s music, and she forgets all the good sentiment she has for the shit-stain. She spent the whole first day of the drive from Los Angeles to Hawkins just picking out the perfect song to pull up to her new hell hole of a school, made sure it would tell everyone who they were messing with, and Maxine is ruining it. She has every right to be pissed; first impressions are everything. 

Billie turns it up loud again, but not loud enough to miss Max’s groan of annoyance. It’s quite easy to push her step-sister, always has been. Billie doesn’t know exactly why she does it, maybe to prepare her for the brutality of the real world, or maybe because they still blame each other for their move to Hawkins. Still, Billie is feeling good; She won’t let the little punk ruin it. 

Neil never lets Billie sleep in anyways, but she woke earlier than usual to ensure that she looked the best she could. No curl is out of place, none of her makeup is smudged. She looks good and she knows it—ensured it even with her best jeans, the ones that hug her hips almost too tight. She checks it though, actually obeying the stop sign two turns before Hawkins High to make sure her red lipstick hadn’t transferred to her teeth. 

She times it just right, waits until the familiar guitar chords come through the speakers, and she sails forward, revving the engine and speeding up in a way that has Maxine white knuckling. Billie whoops, hollers, feeling the beat through her finger tips as the volume rattles her old car. She should let it up, give her girl a break, but it’s the Scorpions; it would be a disgrace to have the volume at half mast. 

She whips around the corner too fast, her back end fishtailing and tires screaming in protest in a way that leaves a mark, her mark: the smell of burnt rubber and the black marks on Hawkin’s High School’s pavement is her personal autograph. She brakes then, still revving the engine, but changing into a lower gear to let her girl coast. Billie doesn’t bother to make eye contact with anyone yet, made sure to put on her sunglasses so she can choose when the reveal happens. She makes her last move, the finale of her show being the wide whip into an empty parking spot, overshooting it by a mile and straddling two spots like she owns the place. 

She knows people are looking. She can feel the heat of it, different than the muggy sun of August in Indiana. 

Billie know’s she’s dramatic—she’s an Aries for fucksake—but she’ll milk it for every dollar she can. She can’t have fun in the sun anymore, can’t surf and drink and smoke with her friends until the sun has nearly come up again. California is gone. All that disappeared the moment she passed the state line. The least she can do is have a little fun. 

She can barely hear Max leave over the music, her selection of Rock You Like A Hurricane pouring out of the speakers and into the parking lot, even though closed windows. She gives herself a second to breath, then lights a cigarette, takes a large pull, and rolls the window down. She still feels it—the eyes on her—so she sits, the perfect image of nonchalance as she beats out the last bit of the song on her wheel. She lets the music roll over her, calming the bit of nerves she pretends to not have. She loves being seen, but the act of actually being perceived is a little more scary. That’s where the theatrics come in. She’s in control. 

As the music dwindles, she hears a yelp to her left, and she allows herself to look. It came from a jock, tall, but too young, too male, for Billie to be intrigued. The brunette next to him though, that’s a different story. She’s sitting on the back of a car, a pricey BMW, and Billie just knows it’s hers. What a princess. Her jaw is tight and her chin is raised, as if Billie did something to piss her off, which…intrigues her. She wants to laugh, to approach the girl with a smile with all the right charm, the way that the girls back in Cali loved, but this is bumfuck Indiana and who knows what is okay here or not. 

Instead, Billie settles for just arching her brow at the girl. It’s a question, a statement. Aggressive but neutral. 

A red head, even shorter than Billie’s height—average thank you very much— stands next to the brunette. She crosses her arm, not intimidating Billie at all. Some freckly guy does the same, not as poised as the redhead, and Billie knows that he’s just her poor puppy dog. They don’t intrigue her though. Her eyes are drawn back to the brunette, wanting to get a closer look at the big brown eyes that haven’t strayed from her. 

Billie lowers her glasses, gives the princess a once over, enjoying the long and pale legs that dangle over the back of the car. It’s hot enough for short skirts still and if there was a god, Billie would be praising Her for blessing her in such a way. She lingers on the brunette’s chest for a moment, poorly concealed behind a goddamn Polo shirt. She’s the embodiment of preppy, probably goes to the country club on the weekends and plays tennis with her rich mother. It makes Billie itch. She’s always been good at tainting good things, leaving a sour taste in people’s mouths, always finds a way to leave her fingerprints behind. She’s fortunate for the deep collar of the Polo, giving the illusion of an innocent girl when the cleavage is on full display. Coy. Cute. Billie likes it. It’s a move she’s gotta respect. 

She doesn’t look for too long, doesn’t want Daddy’s Girl to immediately accuse her of being a dyke on her first day and tear her whole performance apart. Although, when she returns to the girl’s face, her brown eyes meeting blue, Billie notices her swallow. A little thing that no one would have noticed unless they were looking for it, in tune to reading the micro-reactions, ready to know whether to fight or initiate flight. Billie’s always been one to fight, as usual, her feminine hands hardened by bruises and scars that no “lady” should have. But she notices the gulp and Billie settles. Calms. 

With a laugh to herself, she throws open the door to her car. It makes a noise as it always does, loud in the space that is now too quiet without the music playing anymore. She continues with the act, leaning against her car, ignoring the sun-sweltered metal pressing into her back. She’s still watching the girl and she’s still watching her. 

Billie’s mouth is dry. Her cigarette isn’t water, but it’s better than nothing, the smoke settling in her chest like it’s coming home. She points her head to the sky and pushes it back out, letting it rain back down on her, becoming her own cologne. She’s slow with it, lets people look. She lets them soak up her show like the California sun and smiles. 

She looks back down to find the brunette still watching. And so Billie does what she probably shouldn’t and sticks her fucking tongue out at the girl, practically waggling it as she pressed it to the corner of her wide smile. It’s a downright predatory grin. She knows: she’s practiced it enough times to know what it looks like, has used it enough to know how it gets girls going. She doesn’t know why she uses it on the girl, just knows that she’s staring down the barrel of a gun and she is not a flight type of girl. She’s a fighter, so she stares the Princess down, waiting for her to break. 

And she doesn’t. 

And that’s just…something else entirely. 

Billie knows she’s pushing her luck. She always is. She’s always waiting ’til the last moment, standing on the tracks as a train barrels towards her, always jumping off right before it obliterates her. Her old friends hated her for it, loved her a bit more for it, but it’s what gets her going. The thrill of pushing a bit too much, a bit too hard is the most fun of it all. It’s the sore pleasure that comes from pressing a bruise, the exhilaration after getting someone to snap and land a punch. It’s reckless and bloody and she loves it. 

But this is Hawkins, Indiana. So, Billie goes against what she itches for and grabs her satchel and her jacket and makes her way inside. It still gratifies her though, to make the first move, to have the last word. It’s nice to feel the eyes on her still, to hear the murmur of the schoolyard quiet into mumbles and questions as she makes her way inside. She’s made her mark on Hawkins, along with her tires on the pavement. 

***

The first day starts off fine. It’s Hawkin’s second day, so everyone is bustling around her in the hallways. The year is still fresh enough for people to be concerned about schedules and locker combinations, but not new enough for them to ignore the new kid roaming the halls. Billie keeps her head high, taking up as much space as she can in the crowded halls. If people haven’t seen her already, she wants to be noticed. And it works. Guys check her out, whistling and eyeing her up like she’s wrapped in a bow. Girls on the other hand either give her such a look of awe, like she’s the queen of their small little town already, or they give her such a look of disgust that it brings Billie pure joy. 

It takes her a bit to find her locker, a bit longer to find her classes, but she doesn’t ask for help. She had some beefy jock show her to her first class, but she didn’t need the help, just looked at him through her lashes to give herself a little boost, to syphon that attention like it’s a life force. Her first class is AP Bio, since Billie is smart. She’s got all the AP classes she can sign up for. It’ll give her something to do in this hick town. 

The teacher introduces her. It’s a boring man with a monotonous voice, which is so great for AP bio first period, but she’ll prevail. She tells the class she prefers Billie, her usual spiel, and is told to sit in the only empty seat in the room, next to some moody band kid whose last name is Buckley. She eyes Billie as she walks towards her, chewing on a pen in contemplation, but not in a way that others have been. She’s…curious. Wary. Like that one time Billie’s former best friend, Josephine, took Billie with her family to Washington for New Years and they got to skate on the frozen lake. Josie skated on ahead, no care in the world, while Billie wobbled along, familiar with skating, but scared of the ice and what was beneath it. Even though Josie said it was safe, Billie still felt like she’d crash through at any moment. 

The chick is taller than Billie, that’s for sure. She has a bad slouch, but one that comes from insecurity and natural height. The girls’ used to making herself small, but yet her gaze tells a different story. As Billie sits next to her, the girl is calculating. She’s weighing her options. She seems damn smart, and Billie’s fine with that for a partner. Makes her wonder why she doesn’t have one though. Is she some basket case, or is she just smart enough to make it on her own?

So she asks:

“What’d you do to get no partner?”

The girl shrugs. Looks annoyed at Billie’s question, actually. It makes her smile. The girl’s got attitude, bite. She’s holding her cards close, but Billie can respect that. 

“We had odd numbers and I volunteered. Don’t worry, I won’t try and poison you or douse you with acid. I just don’t like,” she motions to the room with her pen, “them.” 

Billie snorts at that. 

“Bum fuck nobodies don’t get your rocks off either?” 

And Buckley squints at that, like she’s trying to see through Billie with laser vision. She doesn’t answer her, just straightens out. Up front, the teacher starts the lesson, but they’re in the back, away from the rest. Still, the girl pulls out a giant textbook with a sigh. 

“We can share,” she says, “don’t worry. It’s my brother’s old one so I didn’t have to buy it.” 

That explains the dick drawings on page 21. Although she just met her, Billie doesn’t peg Buckley as the dick drawing type. More moody, maybe more classical nudity, stuff that’s considered art instead of pornography or immaturity. 

“Thanks,” Billie replies. 

“I’m Robin, by the way.”

And Billie smiles at that. Sticks her hand out to Robin with a shit eating grin for good measure. It’s been five minutes, but Robin looks ready to kill her already. Billie knows she’ll grow on the girl, likes her fire already. Maybe take a bit to break her out of her shell, but hell she’s the most interesting person she’s seen yet at this hell hole since the girl that morning. 

***

When class wraps, Robin snatches Billie’s schedule without even asking. Billie kind of enjoys it. Misses the familiarity she had with her other friends—her former friends. She tries not to dwell on that. She just has a year and some change and she can make it back. Maybe they won’t have moved on without her, but that’s a long shot. 

“Nice, we have English together,” Robin tells her, “We have Mrs. Click, but us band kids call her Clickity Clack because she’s annoying as hell.”

“Ah, so you are a band kid.”

Robin winces at that. Throws her backpack over her shoulder. 

“What gave it away?”

“Dunno, just a vibe.”

Robin scoffs, laughs. It’s gummy and cute, in a dorky kind of way that makes Billie want to protect her. 

“Well, Miss California, I know it’s all sunshine, vibes, and drugs over there, but here in Indiana, no one gives a fuck about vibes.”

Billie laughs, tuts at that. 

“Shame. Can learn a lot about a person by the first impression. You’ll figure it out. I’ll teach you how to read people.”

And Robin…she blinks at that. Owlish almost. As if she didn’t expect Billie to like her, let alone promise to basically be her friend, to stick around. She blushes a bit, hanging her head and letting her short brown hair cover her face. 

“Well, lead the way, Buckley!” 

***

The first thing that Billie sees when she walks into Mrs. Click’s room is red hair. Which means…

No. 

She can’t be that lucky. 

Sure enough, it’s the red head from this morning, sitting on the desk talking to the the Princess. They’re absorbed in conversation, the brunette looking at the red head, listening to her talk with such a sentimental smile that can only come from years of dealing with your best friend’s shit. They’re a pack of two. Billie already can tell that. Knows she won’t be able to get through to the Princess without first dealing with her guard dogs: the Chihuahua and the German Shepherd. 

Then, they get close. 

Brunette leans into red head’s space, basically sharing each other’s breath, only to make a joke she can’t hear which makes the redhead smack her. It makes her breath stop, just for a second, seeing the girl’s charm in action. There’s always an odd flirtationship between straight girls that Billie has never been able to endure or reciprocate. Being an outsider, a viewer of it, feels wrong. Feels like she’s intruding. 

Click clears her throat and the girls separate. The spell is broken. 

But then.

Brunette notices her. 

Billie can feel it. Made sure not to look at her when Click called the class’s attention. She first looks to Robin, who sits in the back with her feet up on the desk, contorted in the way that looks more painful than comfy. She’s not even paying attention, writing or doodling in a navy notebook. So Billie scans the room. Let’s herself linger on all of the faces, lets them take in her own. Then, and only then, does she allow herself to look at the brunette, who is too occupied with the Chihuahua whispering excitedly to her to notice. 

Then she hears it. 

A snicker. 

Some snotty nose geek in the front row found her full name funny. Honestly, she doesn’t know what Neil was thinking when he named her Sybil. As if she had enough issues at home, the last thing she needed was bullying at school for it. She likes to pretend it’s the thing that made her what she is now, what gave her the thick skin and attitude, but that was all self preservation from Neil, not her name. She never really had a problem with her name in California. She was Sybil and that was that until one of her friends called her Billie. And the rest was history. 

But now, she uses it as a lesson.

She stares the boy down, wiping the grin right off his face. He pales, his hands twitching where they lie on his desk. 

“It’s Billie, actually,” she says. She makes sure to force all the venom she can into the words, makes sure the boy will come pleading to her for forgiveness. Then, she allows herself to look. Just once more. She looks up and the Princess is looking back. Her eyebrows slightly raised, a sign of approval.

“Billie or Hargrove,” she finishes. Makes sure the brunette is watching her, has her attention on her. Tries to make her hear what she’s saying when she says, “I’m not picky.”

The girl’s lips part a fraction. An exhale. Miniscule. So small you’d miss it if you weren’t watching. Which Billie is. 

It feels like she’s achieved something, broken through somehow. Communion. 

So she takes her seat next to Robin. She slaps her arm lightly, still looking at her notebook, but shaking her head and chuckling slightly at Billie’s antics. And Billie feels alive, like when she catches the big waves on the beach, the sun shining, her friends cheering her on, only the sea, the sun, and gravity there with her. 

Mrs. Click starts the lesson. 

***

Lunch finds Billie empty handed and empty stomached. She plasters on a grin, saunters up to the line and waits until one of the boy she saw eyeing her earlier approach. If she recalls, he was the guy who was next to the Princess this morning. She hopes that she’s not already stepping on Miss Perfect’s toes, snatching away her boyfriend or some sort of deal, but the concept of her, angry and yelling at Billie, letting her fucking have it, excites her enough to ignore consequences. 

She pretends to search her pockets, looking for lunch money she does not own and then taps the boy on the shoulder. He turns around, eyes widening for a moment as he realizes who it is, and then he runs a hand through his hair, trying to regain all coolness he didn’t have. 

“I’m sorry,” Billie says all coy, looking up at him through her lashes, “I think I left my lunch money at home. Do you have any to spare? I can pay you back.”

The guy sputters. So suave. Yeah, she’s definitely not stepping on Miss Princess’s toes here. Doesn’t know her yet, but knows she’s too good for a dude like this. Poor bastard probably just pining, hoping she’ll toss her hair down from the window of her tower. 

“Oh, yes!” He replies, and jackpot. “No need to repay. Consider it a welcome gift.”

She leaves the line with a full lunch, two dollars extra, and Tom’s number. She stands for a second, scanning the room for empty tables. As much as she wants to stomp into Hawkins and claim her spot, her mark, lunch is lunch and she’s tired. Listening to music and eating alone sounds so nice. 

The only remotely empty table was occupied with a prissy, moody looking dude, an artsy try-hard, and what Billie can only describe as lesbian-in-the-closet, fully sporting the auburn pixie cut and large glasses. She contemplates leaving to eat in her car when she sees Buckley, sitting alone against the wall of the cafeteria and bingo. She walks over to her, swaying her hips for any prying eyes to keep up with the charade, and pokes at Robin’s boot with her own. Robin pops out her headphones and stares up at Billie.

“What you got against tables, Buckley?”

“It’s the people, not the tables, that I’m against,” she says, rolling her eyes, “plus the walls allow me to lean against something. I hate hunching over in those bench seats.”

Billie shrugs at that and Robin stares. 

“Can I help you, Billie?”

“I was gonna sit outside in my car, but then saw you, so, mind if I join?”

Robin just shrugs, pushing aside her backpack to make room. Billie shrugs off her jacket, folding it to be some sort of cushion for her poor butt. She can’t damage the goods, after all. 

They eat in silence for a bit, which is oddly nice. It allows Billie to decompress, to take stock. Allows her to watch. It’s almost comical how well the cafeteria tables mock movie stereotypes. California had open school campuses so lunch was eaten out on the grass, big picnics full of diverse friend groups. Here, there were easily definable cliques. The one that intrigued her the most was what is often classified as the “popular table”, which consisted of Miss Perfect, the Chihuahua, and the German Shepherd. And then all the suitors. There were about three random guys around the brunette, obviously peacocking and flirting with her. She ate it up though, beaming wide. Makes her scoff. 

“What,” Buckley asks, reading a book as she eats her apple.

“What do you mean, ‘what’”

“You scoffed.”

“Am I not allowed to scoff, Buckley?”

Robin looks to her. 

“It seemed like a loaded scoff, Hargrove.”

Billie shakes her head, attention drawn back to the table. Robin goes back to her book and Billie lets her. For a moment. 

“Who’s that,” she interrupts. 

Robin looks to her, then looks out at the table when Billie points. 

“Oh,” she says, closing her book with her finger reserving her spot, “That’s Carol, Tommy, and Stevie. Carol is the red head and Tommy is her boyfriend. They’re disgusting and in love or whatever. They’re always shoving their tongues down each other’s throats and it’s nasty.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s gross. And public, Billie.”

Billie looks to the table again. Sees the brunette—Stevie—laughing hard, head thrown back and hands clapping, while Carol stares at her boyfriend’s French fry stuffed face in disgust.

“And...Stevie?”

“Stevie Harrington. She’s über rich and kind of a bitch. She was nicer when she was dating Nathan last year, but that ended and she went back to being Queen Bee.” 

Robin leans in close, like she’s telling Hargrove a secret, “The B stands for Bitch.”

They laugh together and it’s nice. Loosens something in Billie’s chest that she didn’t realize was tight. She still looks at the table, at Stevie, and feels it sew itself back up.

***

Billie has P.E. last period. Thank fuck. The worst thing ever is when you have gym partially through the day and smell like sweat and grime for the rest of the day. The senior privilege is the pleasure of smelling like shit only for your drive home. Poor Maxine. She’ll have to deal with Billie’s stench. 

From what she’s able to gather from Robin, the boys and the girls are separated for the majority of the time. If the weather is super bad, sometimes the gym time overlaps and then it becomes an “ogle fest” as Robin called it. Told Billie that she hates being stared at by fellow band boys, feels violating when they’re only in tanks and short shorts. Billie looks forward to it. Billie knows her ass looks great in any pants, even better in shorts. Can’t wait to send some poor high school boys home with blue balls. 

The locker room isn’t as different as the ones back in California, though it’s much more drab. The bright orange and sky blue colors of Oceanview High are replaced with Hawkins ugly forest green and grey colors. The lockers are all blocks of green, a pain to look at against the dark grey walls. Prison-like. She misses the bright colors, how the vivid environment amped her up more than this. California was always welcoming. The people, the teachers, the environment. Maybe it was just a case of mass sun poisoning. Who knows. 

One things for sure is that it doesn’t smell much better than Oceanview. 

Billie gets to it, meets with the “coach” to get her three sets of uniform, pretends to listens to the rules regarding them, and then goes to change. It’s all going fine, normal for her, completely what she’s used to, until she sees the hand-written name tags held onto the lockers by magnets. 

Her locker. Is right above Harringtons.

Guess she should have seen that coming. 

She finds her locker and is confronted by acres of pale skin, dotted with freckles, beauty marks and moles. She watches as the lace line of Harrington’s underwear vanishes into her shorts. And as Stevie reaches down to grab her tank top, she notices Billie’s boots. Her eyes wander up, comically slow almost. She straightens up, towering over Billie by a few inches, which doesn’t at all effect the integrity of Billie’s knees. Her wide, Bambi-like eyes take in Billie’s face, then she smiles. 

“Ah, so you’re the Californian,” she says. Her voice is honey, smooth with a practiced, balanced cadence of suave and coy. 

And Billie can’t say anything, can’t make her mouth work. Because she’s supposed to be the smooth one here, the one making the one-liners and introductions. 

First impressions are everything.

And that’s why the first thing Billie ever says to Stevie Harrington is: “Ummmm.”

Because Stevie Harrington is towering over her, looking down at her with eyes the color of chocolate, with skin looking so soft, so close that Billie doesn’t have to do much to touch, all visible because Billie Hargrove is meeting the Queen Bee while she is fucking shirtless. And she knows that the lace lined black bra that Stevie is wearing, the one with pink polkadots shaped like hearts, matches the ones that are beneath those short shorts. And she knows that at her height she has a perfect view of everything that Miss Perfect has to offer and boy it is perfect. And Billie is standing there like a dumb boy who just saw his first pair of tits, able to feel the way her heart is beating so fast. 

And she fucking says “Ummmm.”

Her life is so over.

“Billie, right? We had English together.”

Thank god, that reboots her system. A smirk creeps onto her face, she squares her jaw, and looks up at Stevie. 

“That’s me. Billie Hargrove,” she sticks out her hand slowly, slightly relaxed, with all the air of coolness she can muster. Stevie huffs a little laugh. She takes it though, shaking firm, the way you’re supposed to, the way Neil taught her. And that kind of impresses Billie, lets her in on a little bit more of the Princess. So she keeps it going, keeps picking away at the ice, and lies through her teeth. 

“And you are?” 

They’re still holding hands, staring into each others eyes. Neither have wavered. It’s a battle that was never agreed upon but somehow is still happening. 

“Stevie Harrington,” she answers. 

Their hands drop. Billie can breath. 

“Well, seems like we’re locker buddies,” Billie grins, leaning against the cool metal. Stevie slips on her tank and Billie is torn between hating its obstruction and thanking the fabric for it. She licks at her lip again, poking her tongue to the corner of her mouth, running her thumb against the bottom line of her lip. 

“Seems like we’ll get to know each other quite well then,” Stevie replies. 

And then she leaves. The sweetness of her shampoo is what is left—is that honey?—and Billie has to shake herself out of it in order to change in time for class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this it shouldn't be so repetitive for the POVS but I wanted to put the two perspectives of their first encounters heh :) 
> 
> Hope y'all are liking this so far. Again, pls tell me if there are any errors since its just me editing! 
> 
> you can find me on twitter also @pwuthyboi

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHH i am writing this as I go but I had a bunch already done and wanted to upload a first chapter. It will be alternating pov for now sooooo but always third person. 
> 
> ***also I am reading over it again but I didn't have anyone beta so if there are mistakes pls tell me eeeee


End file.
